


From Dusk till Dawn

by misszeldasayre



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Holidays, Romance, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszeldasayre/pseuds/misszeldasayre
Summary: Alone on Thanksgiving, Frank asks Karen out to dinner. A few drinks later, they’re finally ready to admit their feelings for each other. But Frank’s planning on leaving town in the morning. Will he find a reason to stay?





	From Dusk till Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few hours after The Punisher Season 1 finale ends.

The trees are bare. An imitation of the sun— all light, no warmth— is fading in the winter air. Clouds gather over the city, preparing to celebrate Thanksgiving with New York City's first snow of the year.

The Liebermans' green door has shut, David swallowed inside. Curtis' vet meeting wrapped up hours ago. The basement is empty, the chairs are folded, and Frank has locked the old church doors behind him. Now he's driving nowhere in particular, neighborhood streets blurring together.

There are no handprint turkeys, no home-cooked meals for him tonight. He turns down the offer to join Curtis at his brother's for dinner. Can't bear sitting through a family meal without a family of his own.

When he catches himself driving by David's, the green door winking into view, Frank slams the brakes and parks on the edge of road. He's not going to interrupt the Liebermans, not after all he's done to disrupt their lives.

Frank Castle's going to disappear tomorrow; he's just waiting for sunrise to leave town and begin again. He's seen David and Curtis. The last person he longs to see one more time… she already said goodbye in that elevator, their foreheads pressed together. He doesn't know if he could leave her again.

He can't ignore the phone digging into his hip, so he pulls it out and flips it open. Then he's punching in numbers his fingers have memorized, and the line rings. Once, twice— he goes to hang up and—

"Frank?" Karen's voice is butter and honey, sweeter than the smell of pie wafting down this suburban street.

"Hey."

"Frank!" Is that relief?

"Look, you got plans tonight?"

A pause. "N-no. I'm free." Frank can't tell if she's lying. He doesn't want to know if she is. "Wanna grab dinner?"

"I'd… Yeah."

"Can't promise you a turkey."

A dry chuckle does more to warm him than the car heater cranking away at full blast. "I'll be outside in five."

* * *

The sharp intake of breath greets Frank as Karen slides into the seat beside him. The green and purple blossoms across his cheeks aren’t easy to overlook. “You’re…” She reaches a hand to touch his temple.

He shrugs her away. “It’s nothing.” That’s not enough to call Karen off of a lead. “Hey, it’s been a hell of a week. Can we just… eat dinner?”

She lets it drop after a searching look. “Get drunk and pretend we’re normal? Tall order. Where are we going?”

“Where do you wanna go?”

She leans over the armrest. “I know this place midtown— good cocktails and steaks. Foggy brings Marci there all the time. He says it’s good.”

“Long as we don’t run into ‘em.”

Her laugh is unexpectedly harsh. “They’re eating with Marci’s parents tonight, I think.”

As he glances over the wheel, an overwhelming sense of loneliness leaps out from the passenger’s side. Drifting apart from Foggy must only twist the loss of Red deeper between Karen’s ribs. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, meeting her gaze.

“Frank!” she exclaims, although the bitterness has disappeared from her voice.

He presses the gas in reply. “Directions?”

She shakes her head, choking down a reprimand or maybe a question.

* * *

"This is nice." Coming from anyone else, that would be a compliment. Coming from Frank, however, is a curse. He eyes the sleek wood-paneled walls and black leather chairs with discomfort.

Leave it to Karen to pick up on that. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," he grunts. Once she continues to stare at him for a few more seconds, he adds, "Shoulda dressed up."

"You're a little undressed," Karen says as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets. "But… I think you look fine." She bites back words, offering instead a shy smile.

Somehow they manage to snag a table for two, though the place is packed with black ties and grey overcoats. They're whisked to their seats, then greeted by a tall, mustached waiter with a man bun and shoulders half as wide as Frank's torso. A ghost of a sneer flickers across his delicate features while he looks at the Marine's dirty boots and jeans. Frank stares down the man until he passes over the leather-bound menus.

"Happy Thanksgiving." The words are threadbare, but Karen beams at them all the same.

"Thank you!" she says and for a moment, Frank remembers her carefree smile when she handed him a folded bill on the streets, seconds before he pulled his hood off and their lives tangled back together.

"My name is Theo and I'll be waiting on you today." Castle snaps back to the present to catch the white-tuxedoed waiter addressing Karen with a smarmy smile that begs to be wiped off his face. The waiter turns to the soldier. "What'll you have to drink?"

"Jack Daniels."

The sneer reappears (did it really disappear?). "Hm." He turns back to Karen, his script grinding to a halt as he watches her wriggle out of her overcoat and drape it over the chair. This makes Frank freeze, too. Her dress is something else, deep blue and so low he can't stifle a sigh looking at it. What he wouldn't trade to see that dress on his bedroom floor.

Damned waiter interrupts the vision unfolding before Frank. "And for the lady?"

"An old-fashioned." She's no rosé girl. Frank likes that.

The grand piano near the entrance plays something soft and sweet that Karen recognizes. She hums the next few notes and Frank can't look away from her, even when the waiter returns with their drinks and eyes only for Karen. It makes Frank uncomfortable, the way the tuxedoed man looks at his companion, but he swallows and orders. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, the works. Like Maria used to cook.

Before their meals arrive, Karen finishes her drink. As Frank digs into his food, she's halfway through her second. Tonight, he's slower, wanting to savor every second he spends with her. The manila envelope from Madani burns slow in his jacket pocket. His time as Frank Castle is running out; soon he'll have to become Pete Castiglione again. Right now, he's simply thankful to be sitting across from the person he'll miss most after leaving.

Direct. That’s Karen while she’s sober. Frank expected a grilling over dinner— where’s he been, what happened to his face, how is he feeling. It doesn’t come. While Karen’s drunk, she’s almost… coy, uncertain of what’s real and what’s softened in the reflection of her crystal glass. “So, Frank.” She bites her lip. “How are you spending your Thanksgiving weekend?”

Frank shrugs, gesturing around him at the bar, the music, her. "Like this." She giggles and pride sings in his veins. One drink and she's got him soft like a new recruit.

The whiskey smarts going down, but he doesn't grimace. The pain is nice. Reminds him how much pleasure this moment contains. "How 'bout you?"

"I've got work tomorrow."

"Don't bullshit me."

"I'm not," she protests, waving her glass under his nose. "This is my way of coping with it. The news waits for no holiday."

The lights are low and he has to lean close to see every inch of her.

"Maybe I'll call in sick," she jokes.

Castle raises his eyebrows.

"So I can spend more time with you? Don't give me that face!" Her smile lingers, infectious. Frank can't help cracking a grin.

Then she looks at him— really looks at him, not distracted by his thick scabs or bruised eyes. She doesn't speak. She just watches him watch her. For a moment, all the noise fades away. The clink of silverware and chatter of families disappears, and it's just Karen and Frank, hurtling towards something so nebulous he has no name for it. But they're flying, so fast he can't take a deep breath without his ribs hollering for his heart to slow.

"How does your Thanksgiving feast taste tonight?"

The waiter's interruption would make weaker men jump, but Frank simply folds his arms. "Fine."

Theo spots the three crystal cups next to Karen's plate and leers, teeth too sharp for comfort. "Would the lady like another drink?"

Karen's chirp turns steely as she finds the server's gaze straying from her eyes. "We're fine." As he retreats to the kitchen, she mutters, "Even Micro's got more charm than him." A snort from Frank, and her cheeks get pink, pleased with his reaction. "What?" Her eyes widen innocently. "It's true."

It's getting harder to hold himself together. Those blue doe eyes, that smirk twisting her lips, that stupid piano music. Put him in a room with dim lights and a few drinks, and he melts. No matter that he's Frank Castle. The Punisher. For Karen, he'll be the man she needs tonight.

* * *

Their pumpkin pie has been long washed down by another round of old-fashioneds, but still they linger. Finally Karen, swaying in her chair, yawns as she shrugs on her coat.

"Ready?" Frank asks, and the word stings his tongue. He's not ready for the night to end.

She stands. "I won't survive the drive back home if I don't pee first."

Frank snorts and settles back in his chair with a nod, waiting for the bill.

When she returns ash-faced, Frank's on his feet. "You gonna get sick on me, Karen?" But she doesn't laugh. Her chin trembles. Rage foams in her eyes, the angry flash sharp enough to split Frank's cheek open again. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." His hands, outstretched, placatingly. "What happened?"

"He—" she splutters, shaking her head incredulously, wetting her lips as she tries to gather the words floating above her head and form them into a coherent sentence. "The bastard touched me!"

"What?" he barks.

"Our waiter grabbed my ass. Caught me on my way to the restroom and tried to feel me up. He said if I was sick of hanging out with you, I could go home with him."

His war is done, yet Frank feels that rush of adrenaline compelling him to take up arms. He scans the room for white tuxedos, but locating his target is difficult with so many guests dressed up for the holidays. Better head to the kitchen and look for the waiter there.

"Hey," he says, spinning away from the table. "I'll take care of him."

A hand grips his forearm, and he turns, expecting Karen to try dissuading him from the pursuit. Instead, she smiles, a grim flat line that chills and exhilarates Castle all at once. "You'll need my help."

And then they're striding towards the back of the restaurant, weaving between chairs and candles, until they reach the kitchen. Slouching at the cash registers, Theo rings up a bill. Before the waiter can swipe the credit card in his hands, Frank grabs him by the lapels.

"Did you touch her?" he snarls.

Theo squirms. "Dude, let go of me!" When his assailant doesn't budge, he kicks wildly. The blow lands, and the mountain in front of him doesn't blink.

Frank drags Theo down the hall and flings him to the ground outside the restrooms. Far enough away from the kitchens that none of the server's coworkers should come running if he screams.

It's just the three of them and a score to settle.

"Lady, don't let your crazy boyfriend—"

The Punisher shoves Theo against the wall, pinning him with one arm and swinging back with the other. Fist connects with jaw, and Theo's painted red. The waiter grunts and to Karen's credit, she doesn't flinch.

Once Theo's head cracks the sheetrock behind him, Frank eases up on the blows, wrapping a hand around his throat. Enough for tonight; the boy will wake up with a headache and a couple bruises… and a missing tooth. Theo spits out a molar, coughing blood and glaring murder at the couple. He won't be touching anyone anytime soon. Frank nods towards Karen. They can walk away now. Or she can take her shot.

Restrained to the wall, Theo struggles futilely as Karen approaches him. "I-I didn't mean—" She cuts him off with a punch to the gut that leaves him howling. The waiter collapses into a bloodied heap in front of the women's restroom.

"Time to get outta here," Frank sighs.

"I've still gotta pee," Karen says, an apologetic grimace wrinkling her nose.

"Hurry." Frank stands guard in the hall, watching the waiter crawl away. He lets him go.

An elderly woman totters to the restroom, smiling as she passes Frank. "Happy Thanksgiving, son." He grunts in reply.

"Wipe off your face," Frank instructs when Karen emerges from the restroom, a spot of blood smudging her cheek. "Now follow me out of here like there's nothing to hide." Karen quickly composes her face— Frank wonders just how many scrapes she's found herself in— and the two of them make it past the kitchen without being stopped.

Then the manager, a portly, flustered man with a red bowtie, emerges from the back of the restaurant. Theo's right behind him. Pointing at Frank and Karen, the battered waiter yelps, "Stop them!"

Conversations disappear in a hiss of whispers and frowns as the diners turn to who's making a scene. Frank imagines the picture he and Karen make: a bruised giant in jeans and a shaking, whiskey-flushed woman in a blue dress that could silence the whole room on its own. Definitely time for them to get out of here.

"Kiss my ass, Theo!" Karen screams, Frank pulling her along as she stumbles into a small family's table.

"My apologies," he mutters to the family as Karen picks herself up. Then he scoops up a bottle of champagne from the table, shaking it before launching it at Theo's head. Distance doesn't matter; his aim is always accurate. A sticky-sweet bomb, shards of glass dancing in the air like a chandelier.

The room clamors to life as the champagne explodes.

"Is this a circus around here?" one woman shrieks as they dash by her table.

When Karen yells back, "Enjoy the show," Frank knows he's the goddamn luckiest man alive. Her hand slips into his and they push past the guests, past the piano.

"Go, go, go!" he shouts, and they're racing out the door, down the sidewalk, across fields and streets until they're a good half mile away from the restaurant in an alleyway lined with trash bags and fire escapes.

Slowing, pausing, waiting. Listening. He hears the sirens in the beat of her heart, the mirth in the slap of her feet on the pavement.

Karen gasps for breath, doubled over. "You have a car, you know that?"

"Right." He knew that, somewhere in the back of his mind not fixated on the flush of her chest, the laugh in her breath. "Guess we could've taken that."

"You know," she says, once her panting slows. "My apartment's only a few blocks away."

_I know._

"We could go there. Sober up with a cup of coffee."

Frank nods. He follows her there, careful not to step ahead of her, showing no signs that he's paced these streets a dozen times before, scoping out the best lookout for a clear view of her window. Just to make sure she's keeping the flowers alive, of course.

When he notices her shivering, he hands her his coat. No words, no gallantry, but Karen reddens all the same. Could just be the exercise. Or the wind nipping at her face. Frank smiles just the same, a thin satisfaction that he hopes goes undetected.

* * *

The first thing he notices as they approach the apartment is that the whole complex is dark. The hair on Frank's arms stands on end.

"Maybe everyone's out for Thanksgiving?"

Frank doesn't respond, feeling for the knife in his belt. White knuckles over a worn hilt, all the way from the entrance of the building to the door of her apartment. The lock clicks; the door swings open.

No one jumps out from the darkness. Frank steps in first, using the sliver of moonlight leaking through the curtains to scan the apartment. It's the same as it appears in his dreams, not a book out of place.

Karen flips the light switch. Nothing.

"Power's out," she groans. "Could you hold this up for me?"

He takes her phone and switches on the flashlight; she rummages through the kitchen cupboards.

"Closer?" she asks, straining to determine the contents of the top shelf. Frank moves a few inches forward, angling the phone over her shoulder. "Closer?" she repeats until he's pressed against her back, the phone brightening the recesses of the cabinet.

As soon as she grabs the matchbook and candles stuffed in the back of the cupboard, he backs up from her. Too hasty, he misjudges the space in the tiny kitchen, jabbing his side into the corner of the counter.

"Oof." He'd hold in the groan any other day, but Rawlins really screwed up his ribs. He sets the phone down so he can check out the point of impact. Bruised, but nothing feels out of place. More so than it already is.

Karen's fingers fly over the matches and candles, and soon the room glows. Then she's at Frank's side, fingertips trembling over his torso. "Are you okay?"

He rolls his eyes— has he ever been truly okay?

"Don't pretend it doesn't hurt."

It does, but not more than the thought of saying goodbye to her tonight. "How about that coffee?"

The look she shoots him says  _I see what you're doing, distracting me_ , but she drops her hands and busies herself with the coffeepot. He falls onto the sofa and waits. For coffee, for Karen to say something, anything.

The steady drip of the machine fills the room with an unbearable tightness. Maybe it's just Frank's chest knitting itself back together. Maybe it's his heart contracting whenever the candlelight throw Karen's face into sharp relief.

"You know, I wasn't thinking back at the restaurant, I just—" A rueful giggle as she plops down onto the couch and passes him a mug. "Wow, I shouldn't drink that much."

Frank pats her shoulder gently. "That was some strong shit." When he moves to pull his hand away, she reaches up, capturing his palm in hers.

"Easy, Karen." He's staring down the barrel of a gun and he knows one wrong move will trigger his demise.

He can't read her face, only sees her tongue dart out, her lips twist. "You want more coffee?" Somehow, he doesn't think she just means coffee.

"I, uh… I gotta get going." A lie. There's nowhere else he'd rather be. But he's gotta keep her safe, and he's nothing but bad news. He pulls away, standing up and placing the empty mug in the kitchen sink. The hall looms before him; he's out of moves.

Before he can turn to say goodbye, a pair of hands winds around his torso. Karen's hugging him, and it's everything he remembers, everything that's slunk into his dreams since she caught him on his way out after bringing her flowers.

He spins to face her, a resigned smile masking the hitch in his breath. Below them, the candles sputter on the counter. "We shouldn't." He gently detangles himself from her embrace.

Karen runs a hand through her hair to push it off her face, crossing her arms. "Is that what you want?" She's stammering now, thoughts moving faster than her tongue can handle. "You-you want to pretend that we haven't been dancing around… this all night?" She gestures wildly at herself, at him, at the space in between.

His eyes dart across her face. "So what should we do?"

She can't actually want him, not after seeing him explode in court, slaughter his way through New York's underbelly, punch a waiter instead of walking away. Tonight, facing the prospect of Thanksgiving alone, drowning in booze, Karen's just fighting not to be alone. It's just a swirl of ingredients that don't add up to love. A shotgun shot in the dark.

Yet she seems so certain, her brow furrowed and her eyes stone. "Guess we could give this a try."

This might be the last time she ever sees him. He can't ruin it by accelerating this  _thing_  into the unknown and stealing the keys from her come sunrise. Nothing good can start while he's on the run.

"You're Red's girl. He's gonna come back from hell and" —here he can't hold back a chuckle despite his swimming head— "I'd hate to mess his pretty face up when he comes after me."

Karen allows a smile to creep into her scowl. "You wouldn't stand a chance against him."

And then she's lemon and whiskey against his mouth. He's still, doesn't know whether to lean in or pull away, but then he's got his hands spanning her waist, pulling her closer.

A strike of the match, and Frank's on fire. He's clean out of air, and yet he's still burning under her hands. He's kissing her back, every movement giving thanks for this fleeting moment inside a room he's watched from the scope of a rifle for weeks.

She's pulling him towards her room; he's happy to follow. The blue dress hits the floor, and Franks sinks into the pillows. His whole body aches— has it only been a few days since he broke under Rawlins' gloves? It seems like an eternity ago as he runs his palms along the swell of Karen's hips, the curve of her spine. But as she tugs him into her, his bones remind him that he's still healing and he winces.

The opposite of pain is pleasure. Frank's known pleasure: a wife waiting for him at the close of a tour, an icy beer in the desert heat, a man's skull cracking under his hands. It's satisfaction that's eluded him— lasting pleasure that can withstand the pain.

His heart splits and mends on a daily basis, three parts scar tissue and one part muscle. Still pumping. Now it's racing like it hasn't since his last night with Maria. Is this evening a blip of pleasure or can it become satisfaction?

He's been driving the nameless, faceless streets all afternoon, looking for something. Karen's been waiting for him at the end of the road. Maybe he doesn't have to keep moving if this is what he can have by staying— coffee and kisses, sunrises with Karen. Something akin to contentment slips between their twined feet and rumpled sheets, and Frank's not sure he'll ever drink whiskey again because it will never taste as good as it does right now on Karen's lips.

* * *

He's drifting off, euphoria settling into his bones, when she leans into him. "Stay with me."

Half-asleep, he murmurs into her hair, "You don't mean it."

"I can't do this without you."

"This?"

"Life."

He won't ruin the evening with a lie. So he kisses the crown of her head and traces the letter x on her arms until she falls asleep.

* * *

When Frank wakes up the next morning— unsure of how to look at her, how to tell her what he has to do— he keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady, for a moment. Just one more minute by her side, that's all he wants. Yet something jars his last moment of peace. It's quiet, strangely quiet. That's why he opens his eyes, reluctant to banish the image of Karen bending over him that's burned on the back of his eyelids.

The bed next to him is empty, save for a crumpled pillow and her half of the quilt. An indentation where her head lay, where her body curled up against his, is all that remains. The sheets are cold. A muted sun streams through the curtains, illuminating the vase at her window. She's been gone for an hour, perhaps more.

He could look for her. She'll be at work. Probably never missed a day at the paper in her life. He could walk inside the Bulletin, past reporters and photographers, knock down her door and sweep her into his arms.

He could wait for her. Wait for the lock to click and the satchel to hit the kitchen counter, for her to unwind her scarf and throw down her jacket and run into the bedroom to find him propped up, still under the covers. "Pillow thief," she'd accuse him, just like his kids did eons ago, and she'd laugh when she caught the title of the book he plucked from her collection to pass the time. " _A Tale of Two Cities_? Really?"

But he knows he's lying to himself. She needs it to be easy. That's why she left without waking him. It's the plea she left in the print of her body on the mattress. She needs a reason to miss the goodbye, needs him to leave before she can't let him.

It's a shotgun shot to his heart. But he tugs on his pants and boots, the uniform of a traitor who can't stay to face his partner in crime.

The walk to his car is short, barely a mile and a half from Karen's apartment. Look like the first snow fell overnight, only an inch or two dusting the sidewalk. The roads are already clear, the snow swept away faster than any evidence of their tryst. Idly he wonders if Karen left the apartment in time to see the white streets glowing in the dark before the ploughs came through. His bootprints form a trail of unanswered prayers.

An inch of white fluffy stuff coats the windshield. Frank lets the wipers do the work, rubbing his hands together as the car slowly heats up. When his hands unfreeze and the fog inside the car dies down, he shifts into reverse. Time to get away, to leave Karen behind so they can both move on.

But he never gets far.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the things I like most about Frank and Karen’s dynamic is that she can be herself around him in a way that she can’t around Matt or Foggy. After watching The Punisher Season 1 finale, this beautiful image of Frank and Karen running out of a restaurant on Thanksgiving Day flashed across my mind. But then Frank’s gotta leave town, gotta become Pete Castiglione, and this thing they start is destined to fail.
> 
> I want to clarify that I don’t think that they’re perhaps the best influence on each other. Attacking a waiter, running out of the restaurant without paying for dinner— I don’t condone that behavior. But I can totally picture that happening if the two of them got drunk together. And, you know, I love seeing Karen happy with Frank, even if it’s just for a night.


End file.
